


Soldiers today

by lastoftheconsultingwizards



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, F/M, One Shot, Other, POV John Watson, Short One Shot, The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 01:03:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17591789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastoftheconsultingwizards/pseuds/lastoftheconsultingwizards
Summary: ILY scene but from John's POV.





	Soldiers today

**Author's Note:**

> So, I saw an anon ask on miz-joelys-sherlollilists about the ILY scene from John's POV which I explored a while back but wussed out of posting, so here it is!! It's in a kind of raw form though, sorry!!

_ Oh, God. Not Molly, anyone but Molly… _

It would be torture, John thought, not just for Molly, but for Sherlock also. Sherlock who he knew regarded Molly with quiet admiration for her contributions in cases and in the scientific field. Sherlock who he knew wouldn't recognise love for another person from his own perspective. Sherlock who he knew was barely scratching the surface of love for another human being in any sense of the word.

Molly who, despite her best efforts still had feelings for his idiotic friend. Molly who had put up with Sherlock's total bullshit for far longer than he had. Molly who didn't deserve to admit something painfully true. Something she wouldn't want to admit.

He hoped to God that Sherlock would be gentle with this and not opt for something direct and to the point.

Mary hadn't been gone long, in the grand scheme of things, that had broken Sherlock. Imagining a world in which Molly Hooper, the Consulting Detective's beloved pathologist, was dead was easy enough. Molly was, as far as he was aware one of Sherlock's oldest colleagues, his world would shatter. It was a haunting image of the future. Rosie, without her godmother, having just lost her mother. He without a close friend whom he relied upon dearly and trusted with his life.

_ I'm sure that even Mycroft would miss her.  _ John thought to himself, watching in desperation, on the balls of his toes as the clock counted further down. It rang out.

_ “Hi, this is Molly. At the dead centre of town!... Leave a message.” _

Things started to slow, Sherlock remained, laser focused on only one thing, his pathologist. All else in the room, his best friend and his brother were background noise and they knew it. Even the British Government beside him was silent. Sherlock was wired, back sprung tight, coiled and ready to take flight.

_ Please… _

Mycroft was staring at Sherlock alone, Eurus’ looming face was ignored.

_ Pick up pick up pick up.  _ John chanted in his head, hoping that somehow, over hundreds of miles of distance she would sense his desperation telepathically and answer.

She did.

The air in the room changed as the three men released breaths they didn't realise they were holding.

“Molly, I need you to do something for me…”

_ Shit. _

“Say these words.”

“What words?” She gave half a smile, a weak laugh edged her voice.

She was having a bad day. He wondered briefly if Rosie was being difficult, she was currently teething and had had him up all night. But he felt selfish for thinking about his daughter when one of the lives of his closest friends was at stake. There were no comments from the youngest Holmes, barely anything to indicate that this was anything other than an incredibly private phone call between two people who, John was rapidly realising, probably did in fact love each other. 

Part of him felt so cruel for witnessing this woman admitting that she did, in fact, love Sherlock. Watching her crumble at the edges was nigh on impossible, and for a split second he saw the Molly he knew years ago. Until-

“You say it.” And she was back, the no-bullshit-molly-hooper with a new hardness in her voice. She had put up with so much from Sherlock, more than he could probably guess.

“Say it like you mean it.”

Everyone in the room knew Sherlock to be a good actor, the man could slip, so easily into a bumbling French waiter or a Glaswegian prison officer but this was different. This was his heart, caged in a glass that was peppered with hairline cracks, cracks that were widening further with the ordeal of Eurus and memory of long buried trauma.

John resisted, strongly the urge to shout out to Molly, this was their fight. Sherlock's fight, but, retrospectively, it would probably turn out in victory. Mary's departure had softened him and John hoped he could play out some true part of himself that did love the doctor. She looked so small against the vast countertop, huddled into that rainbow jumper that on anyone else would look hideous but Molly somehow managed to pull it off.

“I- I love you.”

John's thoughts stopped, frozen.

And he said it again, he didn't need to and it was different. Honest. Genuine. Real. He exchanged a look with Mycroft, who was less surprised and gloating that John expected.

Sherlock was tense, ready to take flight.

_ He loves her. He loves  _ her. _ Not Irene Adler. Her. _

Molly was less wired, and, as if she were exposing her darkest secret. She responded, blissfully with seconds to spare.

John's brain was screaming, in any other situation he would have probably punched the man in the face but they were soldiers today. All three of them.

It was Mycroft who tried to speak first -

“I won, I saved Molly Hooper.”

When Eurus started to explain that she hadn't needed saving and began to almost mock Sherlock for “all those complicated little emotions” John felt ready to lose it. Instead, calmly, with pause, he motioned Mycroft that they should move on. He felt dirty, having encroached on a moment that was so forced, so deeply private. It was a moment that should have happened face to face, voice to voice, soul to soul. He was seething, for Sherlock, who he was sure lacked to emotional intelligence to control and comprehend whatever was now surging through his veins.

_ When this is over,  _ he resolved,  _ he would make the two of them sit in a room and sort it out. _

He'd send them to couples therapy if he had too.

Although Sherlock was struggling to put a valve on the unstoppable barrage of emotions that were trying to drag him under in a tsunami wave his breathing was clearly wracked with something resembling panic.

How could Mycroft look on with such little reaction?

_ Soldiers today.  _ It was a mantra. And although it didn't fix anything permanently, nothing would be fixed the same way after today, it soothed Sherlock's seething. He'd tired himself out physically and emotionally.

They moved on. For the moment.

_ Soldiers today…  _

 


End file.
